


in his hands

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Gentleman of Leisure Draco Malfoy, Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Wandmaker Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco's got a bit of athingfor a certain part of Potter's body. No, notthat,you perverts.Good thing Potter's always dressing this particularattributeup to display it at its best.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 66
Kudos: 572





	in his hands

**Author's Note:**

> the october 2 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _glove kink._

Draco’s staring again, he knows he is. Surely this time Potter will notice, will call him out on it. He really should look away—but honestly, he’s finding it hard to give a shit about anything right now. The mallowsweet candies Blaise passed around earlier were _potent,_ and he’s sunk back into the cushions of his couch, so hopefully his half-closed eyes and supine pose are enough to hide where his attention’s focused.

Not from Astoria, though, whose fingers stop their ministrations over his scalp to tug sharply on his hair and draw his attention. He makes a whine of protest and shifts around to bury his face into her lap. “Don’stop,” he slurs, letting his eyes slide closed in bliss when she starts scratching his head again.

He distantly hears Astoria laugh at him. “Fuck, you’re stoned,” she observes. “And you’re like a giant cat. It’s too bad you’re not interested in other pussies.”

Draco cracks an eye open and twists to glare up at her. “I thought we agreed that bad puns involving crude nicknames for genitalia would no longer be a part of our friendship after that appalling _mutton dagger_ joke you tried to make last month?”

Astoria’s laugh sounds like a cascade of little bells, like the ones Mother used to hang over the doors at Yule. “You’re right, but I was trying to distract you, and look at that—it worked, didn’t it?”

“Hmm,” Draco grumps. “Don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Love, you couldn’t be more obvious if you were _trying_. You’re lucky Potter’s watchdog is too drunk to spend the evening glaring daggers at you like usual, or he’d have been over here shouting at us, and frankly, darling, I’m far too pissed to deal diplomatically with that boor tonight. I understand Blaise is trying to make nice with his lady-love’s family, but really, _Ron Weasley_ at one of our parties? His father must be turning in his grave, wherever it is.”

Draco huffs a laugh. “He’s not so bad when Granger’s with him, you know. And sometimes he gets drunk enough to forget that he loathes all Slytherins on sight; he can be amusing then, in a common sort of way.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to feel better about having to spend time with him to get closer to Potter, dear—just leave me out of it.”

If Draco were capable of moving right now, he’d push himself out of her lap and possibly throw a fit, but his limbs each weigh approximately one thousand kilos and he simply _cannot_ lift them, so he satisfies himself by biting her thigh instead. “You’re a bitch, you know. It’s why I love you so much.”

“Takes one to know one,” she sing-songs, pressing her thumbs into the knobs of his spine right at the base of his neck. He groans in satisfaction; perhaps a little loudly, if the brief halt in conversation around them is anything to go by. Oh well.

Astoria’s lips brush the shell of his ear—she must be bent nearly in half. _That’s_ certainly not going to help make this look as innocent as it actually is. “If it’s any consolation, darling, whenever you’re not looking at Potter— _he’s_ looking at _you_. It looks like all the times you’ve _been in the neighborhood_ of his workshop have been paying off—when you were getting drinks earlier his eyes were glued to your arse, and he laughed _much_ too hard at that terrible joke you told earlier.”

“...really?” Draco asks, a spiral of hope crawling up his spine. Or at least, he tries to say it. His lips are numb. “I knew it! I knew it was only a matter of time; nobody can resist my charms forever. Present company excluded, of course,” he adds hastily as Astoria digs her nails warningly into the back of his neck.”

“Really really. I wouldn’t lie about this, you know. You’re a big talker, but you forget I know you better than anyone, Draco Malfoy, and for all your bluster I know you really do like him. Now, he’s trying to subtly edge closer this direction, and he looks confused, so you’d best get your face out of my crotch and attempt to chat up your man.”

“You’re so crude,” Draco grumbles, but he manages to roll off her lap and then heave himself to his feet. Thank Merlin Potter isn’t too far away, and is leaning against the wall at the fringe of a conversation; Draco isn’t sure he can walk far, or stand steadily under his own power.

After what feels like an hour—and the next time Blaise dares him into eating _two_ edibles he’s hexing him—Draco finally manages to arrange himself next to Potter, who’s watching with amusement. Draco squints at him for a moment, trying to decide on an opening salvo.

“Potter,” he finally goes with. Perfect.

“Draco,” Potter replies, sounding near laughter. “You look...toasted. Honestly, I was shocked you made it over here on your own.”

Draco sniffs. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of walking under my own steam in all scenarios, Potter; I’m known for it, in fact. ‘There goes Draco Malfoy,’ they say, ‘isn’t it a wonder; he’s walking all on his own, and I heard tell he just bested Slughorn himself in a friendly drinking competition not five minutes ago! A marvel, he is’.” He giggles to himself, and when he looks up Potter’s cheeks are pink and his eyes are fixed on his face. “What? Have I got something on me?” He clumsily pats his own cheek, sternly telling himself to not get distracted by the feel of his own fingers on his skin.

Potter mutters something under his breath, but shakes his head, smiling faintly. “No, sorry. You’re just...I don’t see you like this very often. Why on earth did Astoria let you get this high and then abandon you? Where’d she go, anyway?”

Draco lists to the side and rests his head on Potter’s shoulder. They’re good shoulders—broad, and firm with muscle honestly earned through Potter’s work, chopping branches and manipulating magic and tools alike to craft the wands that come out of his shop. Draco’s dated enough gym rats to know the difference between muscles built through activity and those just for vanity, and he knows which he prefers. _His thighs are probably just as nice,_ Draco thinks dreamily for a minute, before he remembers Potter asked him a question. “What...what does Astoria have to do with anything?”

When he rolls his head back a bit, he catches a frown turning down the side of Potter’s mouth. “I just...well, you two are here together, aren’t you? She should be looking out for you. I’ve seen you take care of her at parties before.”

“Together,” Draco snorts. “Merlin. No. We were drinking at mine before Blaise deigned to let us know he’d arranged this little _soiree_ for your ex-girlfriend; we were going to blow him off, it’s shower night down at the Unicorn, but he was just so _pathetic,_ and if I’m known for anything, it’s my soft heart....so, here we are.”

Potter huffs a laugh, and Draco’s head bobs with the movement of his shoulders. It’s nice. “Your soft heart, and your ability to walk after consuming vast amounts of intoxicating substances; quite the _curriculum vitae_ you’ve built for yourself. Wait—why were you and your girlfriend planning on going to shower night at the Unicorn?”

If Draco had a drink in his hand, this would be the perfect moment for a spit-take. “My _girlfriend_? Merlin, Potter, take it back at _once_ —she’ll never let me hear the end of it if she finds out you said that! Ugh! Absolutely _not,_ Potter; I’m as gay as a maypole, what on earth would I be doing with a girlfriend?”

“You…” Potter trails off, and the silence that remains is so charged Draco manages to stand up straight and look over at him. Potter looks gobsmacked, and he’s steadily turning red. “You. You’re gay. You’re gay? You’re sure?”

“Fairly confident,” Draco says drily, wondering what on earth is going on. “Walking and caring aren’t the _only_ items on my CV; I’d be happy to provide you with _plenty_ of references if you’d like?”

Potter chokes on the hasty sip he’d just taken. “No, no, that—that’s not necessary,” he manages through coughs. “I. Ah. I just was not aware. Of that.”

Draco blinks. “Well, _that_ explains some things,” he mutters to himself. He opens his mouth to continue, but out of the corner of his eye spots Ron Weasley converging on them, a murderous glint in his eye. “Your protective detail is on his way over, which means it’s my cue to take my leave. But, Potter—we will be revisiting this conversation. Are you working tomorrow?”

“I—”

“Excellent. Expect me tomorrow, then; let’s say at one. I’ll bring lunch. Toodles!” Draco makes his escape, brain whirling, and suddenly feeling much more sober. He weaves through the crowd, eyes darting around for Astoria’s distinctive black hair—she’s going to _love_ this.

* * *

Astoria, as expected, had almost pissed herself from laughing so hard when Draco recounted the conversation to her, the two of them tucked away in Blaise’s kitchen after waving away his ‘keep out’ spell.

“Merlin,” she’d choked, hanging onto the counter to keep from falling. “He thought you...he thought that _you and I_...good lord, no wonder Weasley’s been growling and snapping at you; he thinks you’ve got a girlfriend and are leading his best mate on! Good lord, are _all_ Gryiffindors this oblivious? Are you sure this is worth it?” He hadn’t replied, and her eyes had softened as she looked at him. “Of course you are. And of course it is. Do try to actually _talk_ to him tomorrow before attempting to rip all his clothing off, though, hmm?”

And so here Draco is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after waking up two hours earlier, just enough time to shower ( _thoroughly_ —he’s not taking any chances) and primp and pick up fish and chips. He glances at the unassuming sign over the front door— _Quality Wands by H.P._ —before taking a deep breath and pushing the door in.

The front of the shop is quiet and still, the early afternoon sunlight dappling over the neatly organized wand boxes that crowd every shelf on every wall. Potter’s store is nearly the opposite of Olllivander’s—tidy and clean and well-lit, with a clear sorting system and plenty of room to stand without feeling crowded in by the wands and their incipient magic reaching out for potential bearers.

He stops at the counter, and after just a minute Potter’s Patronus steps regally through the wall. “Come on back, I’m just reaching a stopping point,” it says before glimmering out of existence.

Draco steps around the register and through the entrance to the workshop—it looks like a stretch of blank wall, but the shimmering wards are obvious to anyone who’s been granted permission to the back room, and he passes through easily.

“Potter, I come bearing fish and chips from that ghastly little hole-in-the-wall you like, and a mandate from Astoria that I need to _talk_ to you about...about…” He stutters and trails off, dropping the bag of takeaway on the nearest surface, because Potter’s turned to face him, and he’s got _the gloves_ on.

Merlin. The gloves. Draco had spotted them when he brought his wand in for maintenance, all those months ago, and he’s been hooked ever since—if he’s honest, they’re what prompted him to try and get to know Potter, once he had the impression that a simple shag-and-run wasn’t an option.

Thinking about it, though, if Potter thought he was straight and taken this whole time...Draco can’t regret the misunderstanding, though, because he actually wants _Potter_ now, not just his hands or his shoulders or his thighs, and not just for a night.

The gloves, though.

Potter has big hands and long fingers with prominent knuckles, and they feature heavily in Draco’s _alone time_. He’s zoned out more than once staring at them holding a sweating pint glass, or twirling a biro as he joins Draco in the weekly Quibbler crossword, or wrapped around the handle of his broomstick at their monthly pick-up games—but it’s these gloves that make him lose all semblance of coherent thought.

They’re coal-black, and of high-count slippery cotton with a thin layer of dragonhide at the pads of the fingers for grip. They’re so tight as to be practically moulded to Potter’s hands, and they make his hands look even _bigger_ as he runs those quick, clever fingers over his wandmaking materials, stroking life and magic into the wood he harvested himself.

“Draco?” Potter’s voice breaks through his reverie. He blinks and snaps back to himself, just in time to see Potter taking a step towards him, a worried look in his eye, the forefinger of one of his gloves caught between his teeth in the act of tugging them off.

“Don’t!” Draco yelps, and Potter freezes, the concern morphing to confusion. Draco swallows, and logic and rationality flees; he’s done hiding this, now. “Don’t take your gloves off. Don’t...just, leave them on, Potter?”

Potter lets go of the glove and slowly pulls it back securely onto his hand, a new, slightly frightening look in his eyes. He flexes his fists, and Draco can no more stop himself from staring at Potter’s hands than he can stop himself from breathing, or blinking. Potter’s eyes darken at whatever crosses over Draco’s face, and he takes another step forward, and another, until he’s crowding Draco against the wall.

He runs his pointer finger down Draco’s cheek, slowly, deliberately, the whorled texture of the dragonhide catching Draco’s stubble. Draco whimpers and closes his eyes.

Potter’s breath is hot on his ear as his finger drags down further, smoothing over his neck down to his collarbone. “Keep those pretty eyes open for me, Draco. Is this why you’ve been coming here so much?”

“That…” Potter’s pointer finger digs into the notch over his sternum, and Draco’s breath catches. He swallows, tries again. “I— That’s why I came back the first few times. Your hands…” He’s caught in Potter’s steady green gaze, mesmerized by the sight of his pupils expanding. “But then. I kept coming because...because…” He doesn’t know how to continue, especially now that Potter’s other hand has snuck under his shirt and is stroking his waist.

“Merlin,” Potter breathes, cupping Draco’s chin. “I can’t _believe_ I didn’t see…” He drops his hand, smoothing it over Draco’s throat and squeezing, just a little, barely enough to notice, but Draco’s knees buckle.

“Harry,” he whines. “Don’t tease. Please, Harry.”

“Please, is it?” Harry murmurs, pressing his body up along the length of Draco’s. A long hot line pushes insistently into Draco’s hip, and he’s glad for the pressure, because there’s no way he’s holding himself up on his own now. “How about you tell me what it is you want, Draco, and I’ll see what I can do. What have you been thinking about, when you’re in your bed at night?”

“Oh god,” Draco gasps, thunking his head back against the wall as the hand at his waist sneaks down under his waistband. “I thought...I thought… _fuck,_ Harry. I think about your hands in those bloody gloves, you menace, do you have any _idea_ what your fingers look like on a regular basis, let alone all wrapped up in black like that? It drives me mad.”

Harry chuckles in his ear before tilting his head and sucking on Draco’s neck. Draco keens at the sting and pushes his hips forward. He can feel a bruise blooming by the time Harry pulls back.

“Have you thought about them inside you?”

At Harry’s question, Draco has to clench his hands and dig his nails into his palms, otherwise he’s in real danger of coming in his pants right there. “Bloody _fuck,_ ” he swears. “ _Yes,_ Potter, that’s what I’ve thought about. That’s what I want. I think about it _all the time_ when I touch myself. I put my own fingers inside me but it’s not the same, I _know_ it’s not, it’s all I think about, Harry, _please,_ you have to do something, I’m losing my mind—”

“Hush,” Harry soothes, stepping back and hooking his fingers in Draco’s belt loops, pulling him along as he backs up through the workshop. When they reach a clear table, Harry spins them and pushes Draco down onto the table, his chest hitting the varnished wood and knocking the breath out of him.

Harry plasters his chest along Draco’s back and bites down on the back of his neck. It feels territorial, _possessive,_ and Draco shivers and pushes his hips back into Harry’s groin.

Standing up straight again, Harry grabs Draco’s hips and rubs his cock against Draco’s arse, and oh Merlin, is he _growling_? Draco’s going to pass out. He presses his cheek to the cool workbench and tries to keep breathing.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Harry mutters absently, working his hands between Draco’s body and the table to undo his trousers and yank them down. “You have _no idea_ —all these months, and I’ve been practically sitting on my hands to keep from throwing you into the wall and taking you in the middle of my damn shop—and all this time you’ve been practically gagging for it, haven’t you, Draco? You’d have let me manhandle you any way I like, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Draco sobs out, trying to rub up against the table, but Harry’s holding him still as he palms Draco’s arse, having pushed his trousers and pants down to his ankles at the same time. Draco can picture it—he’s pale all over, and Harry’s big hands, encased in tight black cotton on his skin… As the pads of dragonhide drag over his skin he breaks out in a full-body shiver, and he can feel goosebumps in their wake. Harry pulls his cheeks apart and runs a finger down him, pausing over his hole and pushing briefly in, just a little bit, but it’s enough to make Draco howl and push back, desperate for more.

“Easy,” Harry says, bringing one hand down in a sharp _slap_. Draco jumps forward, but then stills, body tense and quivering. “Good,” Harry continues, a note of approval in his voice. “I’ll take care of you. Godric, you’re pretty all over, aren’t you? Do you taste as good as you look?”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Draco hisses out between clenched teeth. He’s doing his best to stay still, but his back is arching as his hips push back towards Harry. “Fuck, Harry, _please_.”

Harry pulls back for just a moment, but he’s back quickly, left hand curled around Draco’s hip, his right fingers trailing down Draco’s crack again—but they’re wet now, and Draco moans, because holy _fuck_ but Harry’s wandless magic is one of the hottest things he’s ever felt.

“You know,” Harry says conversationally, as his index finger pets over Draco’s hole; it sets him to squirming again until Harry presses his free hand onto Draco’s lower back, pinning him even more tightly to the workbench, “I never really thought about the size of my hands, but you’re right. You should see what they look like when they’re holding your arse; it’s obscene. Good thing I’ve got mirrors in my bedroom.”

He pushes his finger in to the first knuckle suddenly, and Draco howls—it’s too much, too fast, and he _loves_ it, and he’d gladly impale himself all the way on Harry’s finger right _now,_ but he’s pinned down, caught fast, and he loves that too. The cotton feels like silk, and when Harry pushes in further and crooks his finger, the dragonhide rubs against his prostate on the wrong side of too-rough, and Draco can feel that his cock is absolutely _leaking,_ smearing precome all over Potter’s nice, shiny workbench.

“God,” Harry says softly, moving his finger in and out, in and out, _too slowly,_ Draco is near tears. “I wish you could see this, Draco. You look incredible. I could do this for hours.”

“Don’t,” Draco chokes out. “Please.”

Harry chuckles. “No, I don’t think I will. Not today, at least.” He punctuates that terrifyingly promising statement by pushing his finger all the way in, and Draco whines as Harry’s second knuckle stretches his hole. Harry’s fingers are long enough that his second knuckle is brushing his prostate, the tip of the finger so deep inside him, deeper than Draco can ever get on his own, and it’s almost, almost enough.

“Harry—” He’s talking without conscious knowledge of what he’s saying now. “Harry, please, you can do anything you want, I’ll love whatever you want to do to me, I swear it, but I need to come, Harry, _please_ let me come.”

“Yes, I think you deserve it,” Harry says, and he withdraws his finger only to shove two back in with no hesitation or waiting, no giving Draco time to adjust, at the same time his other hand sneaks back under Draco’s body to grab his cock, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the slit, smearing the fluid down over the shaft as he begins to pull at Draco’s prick with long, slow drags.

Draco’s got enough leverage now to push himself up onto his elbows, and once he’s stable he hangs his head so he can look down and see Harry’s hand on his cock, and oh god, oh Merlin and Morgana and Salazar too, the sight and the feel and the soft, almost cold cotton contrasted with the warm, rough dragonhide, both inside and out—that’s it.

He comes with a howl, and Harry swiftly presses both his fingers against Draco’s prostate, milking the orgasm out for even longer, and Draco’s coming and _coming_ until he’s writhing in Harry’s hands, past the point of pleasure and tipped over into pain, and he never ever wants it to stop.

Finally, his shaking subsides, and Harry slowly pulls his fingers free. Draco winces and clenches around nothing, grateful for the reprieve but feeling empty without Harry’s fingers inside him.

Harry splays his hand over Draco’s chest and pulls him up so they’re standing flush, and Draco’s legs are just far enough apart that Harry can slip his cock between Draco’s thighs, which are slick from his own orgasm.  
“Jesus _christ,_ ” Harry hisses in Draco’s ear, hands roaming over Draco’s torso as he begins to thrust. Draco sags into Harry’s arms, lolling his head back on his shoulder and letting Harry do what he wants. His whole body is fizzing with overstimulation and every single touch is too much. “I can’t believe—all of that, for my hands. I can’t _believe_ you made us wait this long, you little fucking tease—prancing in here every other day in your tight little trousers over that _tight_ little arse, preening and arching your back—you were practically _presenting_ yourself every time you were in here, and I couldn’t touch you because you let Astoria bloody Greengrass climb all over you any time you’re together. You have _no idea_ how often I wanked over you, you tosser—what gives you the _right_ to be so pretty, in my fucking shop every fucking _week_ —”

Harry’s hips are stuttering, his cock rubbing along Draco’s balls and the underside of his own prick, and, unbelievably, he’s starting to get hard again.

It hurts. It’s bloody _brilliant_.

Harry growls into his ear and bites down on Draco’s nape again (and Draco had _no idea_ Harry would be like this, not in his wildest fantasies did he ever imagine _this_ ), and with one final thrust he comes, all over Draco’s dick, dripping down his thighs. Draco feels— _claimed,_ like an animal might after it’s been taken, and that thought is enough to make him shiver and harden the rest of the way again.

Harry notices, because of course he does, and he keeps them pressed together, dragging his fingers up to pinch Draco’s nipples. “Was that not enough for you? How much longer do you want it for?”

“Forever,” Draco moans, pushing his chest into Harry’s hands, mesmerised as he watches. “Every day.”

Harry’s hands pause and he digs his fingers into Draco’s chest. They breathe together for a moment, Harry’s steady, Draco’s ragged and desperate, and then Harry lets go and spins Draco so they’re facing each other.

“If you mean that…” Harry pauses and swallows, throat bobbing nervously. Draco’s gaze flickers all over his face, unable to focus on any one thing—he feels drunk, he feels _high,_ he feels like he’s taken more of Blaise’s stupid edibles. “If you meant that, Draco. I’m going to need to close the shop for the rest of the day, and take you home with me, and put you in my bed, and show exactly what you’ll be in for _every day_. Is that what you want?”

With an effort, Draco meets Harry’s eyes. “I meant it,” he says, voice hoarse but firm.

Harry exhales loudly and yanks him into a fierce, biting kiss, and suddenly they’re whirling through space, and all Draco can do is hold on.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic's tumblr post is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/630919293725523968/kinktober-day-2-in-his-hands).


End file.
